Poem
Brian Turner
The Mutnabbi Street Bombing
HET BOMBARDEMENT IN DE MUTANABBISTRAAT
Meteen na de explosie wankelt een oude mandoor de wolk van stof en puin, de handen
stijf tegen zijn bloedende oren gedrukt
alsof hij het lawaai van de wereld wil buitensluiten
om twintig voor twaalf ’s ochtends, terwijl de gebroken kreten der gewonden
om hem heen oprijzen, afgebeten en schor van de pijn,
en een jongeman langs rent, schreeuwend
naar het onuitsprekelijke, zijn waterpijp nog in de hand,
het slangetje en mondstuk opwippend
als een gans met een gebroken nek.
Gebouwen vatten vlam. Cafés.
Winkels met kantoorartikelen. Boekhandel Renaissance.
Een enorme rookzuil pluimt op
gevoed door de Kitab al-Aghani,
al-Isfahani’s Boek over gezangen, de klaagzangen van Khansa,
de ballingschapspoëzie van Youssef en al-Azzawi,
religieuze traktaten, manifesten, vertalingen
van Homerus, Shakespeare, Whitman, Neruda.
Boekbladzijden krullen hun donkerende tongen
in de blauwgerande hitte van het vuur, strofe na strofe,
de lange eeuwen rijzen boven Bagdad
en iedereen ziet het.
*
Met het verstrijken van de weken verdiepen zich
de zonsondergangen boven de Stille Oceaan. Paartjes
liggen in de lentevelden van Californië,
drinken wijn, vrijen in de lavendeltinten van
de schemering. Er hangt een zoete gepofte-appelgeur
van tabak in de lucht. We slapen.
We dromen. Ontwaken dan aan het vroege
lupineveld van de dageraad – en ontdekken dat we
licht zijn bestoven met as, met de gedichten van Sulma
en Sayyab in ons haar, Sa’di op onze wenkbrauwen,
Hafiz en Rumi op onze lippen.
© Vertaling: 2009, Jabik Veenbaas
De Mutanabbistraat bevindt zich in Bagdad.
The Mutnabbi Street Bombing
In the moment after the explosion, an old manstaggers through the cloud of dust and debris, hands
pressed hard against his bleeding ears
as if to block out the noise of the world
at 11:40 a.m., the broken sounds of the wounded
rising around him, chawled and roughened by pain,
while a young man runs past, shrieking
at the unspeakable, a water-pipe still in his hands,
its tube and mouthpiece bouncing
like a goose with a broken neck.
Buildings catch fire. Cafes.
Stationary shops. The Renaissance Bookstore.
A huge column of smoke plumes upward
fueled by the Kitab al-Aghani,
al-Isfahani’s Book of Songs, the elegies of Khansa,
the exile poetry of Youssef and al-Azzawi,
religious tracts, manifestos, translations
of Homer, Shakespeare, Whitman, Neruda.
Book-leaves curl their darkening tongues
in the fire’s blue-tipped heat, verse by verse,
the long centuries rising over Baghdad
for all to see.
*
As the weeks pass, sunsets
deepen over the Pacific. Couples
lie in the spring fields of California,
drinking wine, making love in the lavender
hues of dusk. There is a sweet, apple-roasted
smell of tobacco in the air. We sleep.
We dream. Then wake to the dawn’s
early field of lupine—to discover ourselves
lightly dusted in ash, with the poems of Sulma
and Sayyab in our hair, Sa’di on our eyebrows,
Hafiz and Rumi on our lips.
In memory of Mohammed Hayawi
© 2009, Brian Turner
From: Talk the Guns
Publisher: Alice James Books, Farmington, ME
From: Talk the Guns
Publisher: Alice James Books, Farmington, ME
Poems
Poems of Brian Turner
Close
The Mutnabbi Street Bombing
In the moment after the explosion, an old manstaggers through the cloud of dust and debris, hands
pressed hard against his bleeding ears
as if to block out the noise of the world
at 11:40 a.m., the broken sounds of the wounded
rising around him, chawled and roughened by pain,
while a young man runs past, shrieking
at the unspeakable, a water-pipe still in his hands,
its tube and mouthpiece bouncing
like a goose with a broken neck.
Buildings catch fire. Cafes.
Stationary shops. The Renaissance Bookstore.
A huge column of smoke plumes upward
fueled by the Kitab al-Aghani,
al-Isfahani’s Book of Songs, the elegies of Khansa,
the exile poetry of Youssef and al-Azzawi,
religious tracts, manifestos, translations
of Homer, Shakespeare, Whitman, Neruda.
Book-leaves curl their darkening tongues
in the fire’s blue-tipped heat, verse by verse,
the long centuries rising over Baghdad
for all to see.
*
As the weeks pass, sunsets
deepen over the Pacific. Couples
lie in the spring fields of California,
drinking wine, making love in the lavender
hues of dusk. There is a sweet, apple-roasted
smell of tobacco in the air. We sleep.
We dream. Then wake to the dawn’s
early field of lupine—to discover ourselves
lightly dusted in ash, with the poems of Sulma
and Sayyab in our hair, Sa’di on our eyebrows,
Hafiz and Rumi on our lips.
In memory of Mohammed Hayawi
From: Talk the Guns
The Mutnabbi Street Bombing
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère